Thursday, February 18, 2010

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-
they are lumps of coal,
ridges on a distant mountain range;
they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-
porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,
teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;
they have lost their meaning
no longer coveted for purpose-
only finding small warmth in a cold,
passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-
thoughts of books set on distant shores;
sketches of paintings depicting truest love-
never to be penned,
never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums
graveyards for passing fancy-
what could have been
and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall
the china in its case
and the manuscript in the drawer
placed there years ago,
then you stare proudly while you yourself
gather dust.

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